‘Alex, it’s me, Gracie. I’m at the villa. The roses are beautiful. I’ll just water them and come back.’
‘How are they looking?’
‘Amazing. I’ll take a picture for you.’
‘Don’t worry about bringing me a picture. You just go into the village.’
She smiled at his bossiness. ‘I’m not leaving you alone for any longer than necessary. You’re not well.’
‘I’m not alone. Sofia arrived ten minutes ago with six pints of minestrone and won’t leave until I’ve eaten it all. I don’t know why she’s fussing. I’m not that sick.’
Sofia was the cousin of Francesca, Gracie’s boss at the pasticceria, and she was formidable. ‘Hide some in the roses.’ Gracie laughed.
Her stomach rumbled in outrage, reminding her she’d not eaten since grabbing a small roll before the rush had begun. Six pints of Sofia’s minestrone sounded fantastic to her.
‘Are you crazy?’ Alex muttered.
Gracie laughed again. ‘I’ll still—’
‘Go into the village,’ he interrupted. ‘Enjoy the festival. It’s your first. The fireworks are good.’
Gracie hesitated. She would like to go to the festival, especially seeing she’d spent all day baking a million pastries to be sold at the pasticceria’s stall, and Francesca had insisted she not work the evening shift in return. But Gracie was conscious of how horrible it was to be alone—especially when sick. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure.’ He sighed. ‘Sofia has settled in. I won’t get rid of her for ages.’
‘Well, I’ll check on you in the morning.’
‘Not too early,’ he said gruffly. ‘You get up even earlier than I do.’
Gracie winced. Such were the perils of working both the early morning and the evening shifts at Bar Pasticceria Zullo, but working this hard to gain respect and a foothold was worth it, and she was happier than she’d ever been. ‘I’ll see you after my first shift, then.’
‘I look forward to it. Thank you, Gracie.’
‘My pleasure, Alex.’
Happy that he sounded so much better, she quickly snapped a picture to show him in the morning anyway. As soon as she got to the village she would be visiting the pasticceria for some sustenance. Tonight was Bellezzo’s annual festival—featuring lanterns on the lake, music and dancing. Fireworks. Food. Families. Fun. All the things she’d never experienced.
There’d be tourists, of course, plenty of tourists, but Gracie refused to consider herself one. She was a local with a home and she was determined to remain. After a childhood of upheaval and constantly having to rebuild, her spirits soared at the pleasure of now having a place to call hers. And while she might not have family here, she had a friend who needed her. She loved that.
Finally she flicked on the hose. The power of it caught her unawares. With a laugh she gripped it more tightly, giving each rose bush a big drink.
A hand suddenly slammed on her shoulder from behind—hard and heavy and so unexpected she screamed and whirled, brandishing the hose like a machine gun. All she could make out in the blurry spray was a massively large masculine frame and that simply made her aim all the more accurate.
‘What are you doing?’ she shrieked at him.
‘What are you doing?’ he shouted back—matching her English—but his accent had an American tang.
He wrenched the hose from her but it twisted as he grabbed it, spraying a shockingly cold streak across her stomach before he flung it to the ground, the water gushing harmlessly across the lawn. Gasping, Gracie stared at her assailant.
He was stunning. Wet. Angry. Soaked to the skin, the tuxedo he was wearing was now ruined. Tuxedo. Her stunned feeble brain attempted some computations.
‘Why the water cannon?’ He wiped one hand over his face, the other down his front. Droplets of water splattered from his fingers.
That tux was saturated and this was no intruder. Instinctively—unthinkingly—she reached out to help sweep the streaming rivers of water from his suit. She brushed frantically, her hands sopping, until she realised that he was no longer attempting to do the same thing. He was standing utterly still. She froze too, mortification finally sinking in.
Slowly—reluctantly—she glanced up. She encountered glittering eyes so brown they were almost black and they were fringed with unfairly long lashes. Of course he had lashes like those. Superlative, to match the rest of him. As for the cheekbones? You could slice steak on them they were so high and sharp and, oh, goodness...
‘Sorry.’ She whipped her hands behind her back and wished for another cold shock of water from that hose, because now she was so hot it was amazing her blouse wasn’t steaming. She stared up at the masculine magnificence towering several inches above her. She knew who this was. Francesca had flashed her a picture printed in the local newsletter when she’d told her about the sale of the villa. Gracie hadn’t understood a word of the accompanying text but that quick glimpse of those cheekbones had been unforgettable. Rafael Vitale. The billionaire orgy man himself.
‘You’re not supposed to be here,’ she said shakily.
‘I think that’s my line. Again.’ He watched her coolly, decidedly unimpressed. ‘This is my house. You’re the invader.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ She pulled on a smile and hoped he’d forgive her. ‘Wasn’t expecting you to be home.’
‘Clearly not.’ He didn’t smile back. Definitely not seeing the funny side yet.
She was dying...and was...uh...stunned.
Rafael Vitale was so much more than anyone she’d ever met—more tall, more good looking, more well dressed, aside from—
‘You’re very wet. I’m so sorry.’ She glanced at the water still streaming from his muscular frame and died all over again. ‘Will it be...okay?’
‘No,’ he answered bluntly, and peeled off the sodden jacket.
Paralysed, Gracie stared, slack-jawed. His shirt was glued to his skin. Glued. She could see the ridges of his muscles—of which there were many. Hot, hard muscles. He was the most strapping man. Panty-dropping gorgeous but so intimidating that she actually giggled. He looked up from shaking out the jacket and shot her another less than impressed look.
She covered her mouth with her hand. She really needed to stop staring at him. But she couldn’t. Was this what instant attraction felt like? Lust at first sight? She inwardly squirmed at her unruly overheated reaction. No wonder he was a rake if all women had this reaction to his appearance. He’d have his pick of bedmates. Clearly he thought she was a complete fool. But, then, he must be completely used to getting this kind of reaction, which meant she was as much of a fool as any of them. Hell, she needed to pull herself together!
Quickly she moved to get away from him but she slipped on the wet grass. Her feet slithered out from under her and she went down awkwardly, smashing her knee hard.
This time he slammed his strong hand beneath her elbow. Without any apparent effort he hauled her to her feet. Only, she slipped in her stupid wet sandals again. She heard a muttered curse and the next thing she knew she was pressed against his body as he formed a literal pillar of support. His arm was firmly about her waist, holding her far, far too close. Those muscles were even harder than they’d looked. And hotter.
Blistering with embarrassment, she couldn’t bear to look up at him. Dimly she realised her knee was killing her, but her proximity to his physical perfection was providing the most amazing anaesthetic. The thought idly crossed her mind that his woodsy scent ought to be bottled and used in operations